Momma's Honor
by ChaosandMayhem
Summary: A boy will go to any lengths to protect his Ma. Spy/Scout's Ma oneshot. Rated T just to be safe.


Hey guys look at me I'm just churning out stuff like lightening isn't that awesome? Please say yes.

I should probably mention that this will probably be one of the few fics that won't follow EMAT's continuity. I just recycled the names because sometimes even I get a little lazy. :3

So this story is written for Faux Promises, a gentlewoman of fine breeding and many quality hats. :) I really, really hope you like it!

**I own nothing 'cept the OCs herein. Oh, and any remaining spelling/grammar mistakes. I own those too.**

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Momma's Honor

"_The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." ~Theodore Hesburgh_

He'd never been to Boston before, although he had to admit it was a charming, rustic city—it certainly smelled better than Rome or New York. It was the perfect sort of autumn day to be in southern New England, with the sun shining brightly overhead, the wind creating a crisp nip in the air, and the leaves on the trees slowly but steadily shifting from green to red and gold.

If he hadn't been in such a foul mood, the atmosphere might have been more enjoyable, and he would have taken some time to favor the lovely public park he was walking through.

Unfortunately, foul mood prevailed.

Really, he shouldn't have been in such a terrible mood. This was one of his first major assignments as an international secret agent, and his mission—dispose of such-and-such diplomat at such-and-such important place—looked to go off without a hitch. He even had several hours to kill before the big to-do.

No, what was bothering the slick, sleek, super-stylish international man of mystery was a far more basic need.

He was absolutely _starving_.

None of this so-called American cuisine appealed to him, and he was wondering just how hard it would be for the Bostonians to establish just one, measly little French restaurant where he could sit, relax, and have a taste of home.

What the spy didn't know was that he was on the wrong side of town looking for a good meal, and had subsequently gotten himself good and lost somewhere in the South side of Boston. The spy slowed to a halt as he looked around at his exquisite surroundings. Was it worth swallowing his pride and just asking for directions? He'd even settle for one of those burger joints so long as the food was hot.

"YOUR MA IS A WHORE!"

"WELL YOUR DAD IS A DRUNK BASTAHD—" The exclamation was cut with a cry of pain.

The spy wiped around, reflexively reaching for the revolver in his trench-coat. Then his eyes found the source of the commotion, and he relaxed a bit.

A gaggle of boys were fighting not too far away, and from the looks of it one side had the considerable advantage.

A boy with glasses yipped as he was tackled to the ground, covering his face as the boy on top of him started wailing his fists, each blow punctuated by a shout: "YOUR—MA—IS—A—WHORE!"

One of the smaller boys broke away from his captors and leapt on the boy delivering the beating with an all-mighty howl, nails and teeth cutting into any exposed flesh. Instantly he was dog-piled by the others, and as the spy watched with mixed interest and alarm, the mess of boys became a nonsensical pile of limbs and screams.

There was only one boy not partaking in the violence. He stood to the side with a bloody nose, clutching a brown paper bag like a lifeline and pleading with the others to knock it off. His gaze flickered to the spy, eyes begging for help.

The spy hesitated, not wanting to get involved, but at the same one somewhere under the pile a boy screamed: "MY TOOF!"

The spy ran a tongue over his teeth. He could sympathize. He'd been on the bad side of beatings before.

Sighing, the spy started for the pile of boys, still screaming and shouting. One of the bigger boys broke away from the pile, snarling with fury. He staggered back and flicked a pocketknife out of his jacket. The boy started forward, looking to drag a victim out of the ruckus. That is, until a firm hand came down on his shoulder.

"Nice knife," the spy spoke in a nearly-flawless Midwestern accent, "wanna see mine?"

All it took was a glimpse at the steel to send the boy running. As if sensing their leader's retreat, most of the boys took off after him, shouting and waving their arms to make him stop.

The two remaining boys sat up, gasping for breath. The one with glasses took them off, inspected them for signs of damage, and sighed at the slight crack in one lens. "Ma is gonna kill me."

"Danny, check it out!" The second, slightly younger boy exclaimed excitedly, "I lost my toof!"

"Tooth."

"That's what I said, toof." The second boy took to admiring his new acquisition.

Danny, the glasses one, rolled his eyes and stood slowly, wincing as he did so. "Thanks, mistah. You saved our butts."

The spy doffed the fedora he wore in Danny's direction and turned to go, until a high-pitched voice stopped him short: "Are you a detective?"

It was the boy with the brown paper bag. He hugged the object to his chest as the spy spun slowly on his heel. The spy tried to make his smile friendly, but it only came out looking pained. "What makes you say that?"

"'Cause-a ya weapons." The paper-bag boy replied with wide eyes.

"Liam! It's not nice to be nosy! And what happened to your nose?" Danny grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped Liam's bloody nose with it.

Liam shrugged as Danny stuffed the handkerchief up his nose. "I dunno. It just stahted to bleed."

"None of those wise guys hit ya, did they?" The boy with the tooth demanded.

"Nah."

The spy gritted his teeth. The Bostonian accent was one of the most obnoxious things he'd ever heard, and the less he heard of it, the better. He started off on the beaten trail with nary another word to the three boys.

Until, that is, he heard the crunch of several footsteps behind him, and voices arguing in low tones: "Geez, Charlie, you're so loud!" "Stop talkin', Dan, he's gonna hear us!" "Goise, wait for me!". The spy stopped short. "Can I help you?" he asked without so much as turning around.

Charlie, the boy with the tooth, nudged Danny, who scowled and cleared his throat: "No, You're just walking in the same direction that we was walking, so, we thought, maybe, we could walk together?"

The spy spun around slowly. "And where exactly are you walking to?"

"Ta mah mom's work," Charlie explained. The spy inwardly winced, for Charlie's accent was the thickest. Charlie gestured towards Liam, who nodded and held up the squashed paper bag, "she fahgot her lunch today, sose we were gonna bring it to her. And then the damn Gallaghers showed up—"

"Charlie! Watch your mouth!"

"Shut up, Danny! Ya not in charge! Anyways," Charlie took a deep breath, "we was kinda hopin', since ya walkin' in the same direction as us, we could keep ya company for a bit."

The spy heard the unspoken request in Charlie's explanation. He studied the three little boys standing in various degrees of expectance in front of him. "Where does your mother work?"

"At Ollie's." Danny pointed down the path. "S'burger joint not too fah—erm, _far_ from here."

While Charlie gave Danny a baffled look for his quick correction of his pronunciation and Liam took to studying the contents of his mother's lunch bag, the spy tilted his head to the side and considered his options. On one hand, he didn't want to get involved with these three annoying little boys more than he had to…but on the other hand their mother did work at a burger joint…

His stomach gave an unhappy rumble, and basic necessity won out over ideology. "Very well."

The odd little company walked in silence for a few paces more before Liam spoke up again, his voice little more than a squeak: "You never answered my question. Are you a detective?"

"No." The spy shook his head, withholding a mischievous smile. "I am a secret agent."

"Bullshit."

Danny smacked Charlie over the back of the head, calling him out for cussing while Liam squinted at the spy, wondering if he was telling the truth or not. The spy allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch upwards, betraying his serious tone.

Liam smiled back shyly.

The boys weren't all bad, the spy decided. Just…talkative. And being chatty had its own merits, especially given the fact that the spy was a quiet man who preferred listening.

And so the boys talked. And talked. And talked some more. By the time they reached Ollie's the spy knew more about the schoolyard politics and Howdy Doody than he ever wanted to know, and found himself pondering with Liam whether tomatoes were fruits or vegetables.

The door to Ollie's opened with a friendly bell tingle.

"Hi Ma!"

The only waitress currently on staff nearly dropped her tray in shock, staring at the three grinning boys and one tall man lamenting the fate of his shoes on sticky floor. "BOYS! Danny, what happened to your glasses?"

"Nothing, Ma—"

"It was the Gallaghers, Ma!" Charlie waved his hands around to get her attention. "They jumped us on da way here!"

"What—the Gallag—boys—why are you—" One of the patrons cleared his throat in annoyance and the waitress sighed. "Sit in a booth and don't move your butts."

There was a chorus of "Yes ma'ams!" and the trio of boys slid into a polyester booth. They all looked to the spy expectantly to join them. He hesitated and slowly slid into to sit next to Liam.

"How comes yose wears gloves?" Charlie asked, studying the pair of black gloves the spy was plucking at.

"Because I'm trying to stop myself from biting my nails." The spy replied. Surprisingly enough, it was the truth. Nail-biting was a terrible habit of his, and he found the only time he didn't have the urge to bite was when he was smoking. Between a rock and a hard place, so they said.

Liam studied his own ragged nails and kept pestering the spy about _why_ exactly nail-biting was so bad when the waitress came back over, glaring down at her boys. "Ollie let me take my break early. You three had better have a good story." She slid into the booth next to the spy, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

All three boys launched into an explanation at once, and while the spy only heard snatches of words—"fahgot ya lunch" "You won't believe what Chris Gallagher called you!" "Danny punched him in the face—" "And then dis real nice guy stopped to help us!"—but their mother understood every word. When the three boys were quiet she sighed again and sat back in her seat.

"Boys, what have I told you about picking fights?"

"We didn't pick the fight, Ma, we just ended it!"

"I don't care. No fighting."

She wagged her finger in Charlie's direction as the little boy puffed out his cheeks in irritation. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the salt shaker. "You shoulda heard the names they was calling you, Ma. We couldn't just stand there and let them call you those awful things!"

Their mother leaned over and ruffled Charlie's hair with a sad smile. "Thanks, guys. But next time you let me defend my own honor, okay?"

"'kay," Danny muttered. Liam nodded as he pushed the brown paper bag towards her, and Charlie just continued to glare daggers at the poor, innocuous salt shaker.

"Now go home, before Missus Hackman actually counts the lot and realizes three of my boys are missing. Thanks for bringing me my lunch."

With many a grumble and sigh, Danny, Charlie, and Liam slid out of the booth, allowing their mother to plant a kiss on each of their foreheads before heading out the door again, yelling goodbyes to Ollie before the door slammed shut.

Their mother watched them cross the street, Danny grabbing Liam's hand as they did, and head back towards the park. She rested her chin in her hand, the look in her eyes faraway. "Thanks."

The spy started, glancing at the woman out of the corner of his eye. "It was no trouble."

"Still," she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "not many people would have stopped to help out a trio of boys."

The spy half-shrugged. He was studying the woman now. She was worn by care and tough times, but somehow that didn't make her any less pretty. She wore her black hair up in a bun for work, although a few loose strands hung down around her lean face. Her eyes were brown but attentive, sharp with intellect. She stretched, and the spy found himself admiring her form, especially given the fact that she had seven boys waiting for her at home.

"Y'know, mister, if you're going to ogle me like that, the least you can do is offer me a cigarette."

"I was _not_ ogling." The spy sniffed even as he drew a fancy cigarette case out of his pocket. "A gentleman such as myself does not ogle."

"Uh-huh." She drew a slim cigarette out of the case, admiring it before she flicked a lighter out of her pocket. She lit the cigarette and took a quick puff, eyes widening at the foreign, spicy taste of the cancer-stick. "Huh. Fancy." She took another, longer drag, savoring the flavor. It was her turn to eye the tall, skinny stranger sharing a booth with her. His features were partially obscured by a fedora, but a pair of gray-blue eyes shone at her, twinkling with a bit of mischievousness that reminded her more than a little of her boys. "Hat off at the table." She remarked.

"Yes ma'am." The spy helped himself to a cigarette before removing his fedora, revealing his sharp features to her completely. "Do not let my beauty scare you off."

She chuckled. "I've seen sides of meat better lookin' than you, sir. Don't flatter yourself."

The spy grinned as he eyed the menu hanging over the counter. "And I trust those gorgeous sides of meat are available for consuming, yes? How are your all-American burgers?"

"Best in the whole city."

"…are you paid to say that?"

"Yes." She grinned. It was easy to see why her boys had taken such a shine to this stranger. "But that doesn't mean it isn't true."

"Hm. I'd like to try one, then. Once you're off your break." He still had a few hours to kill, he figured. And spending those hours with this charming woman was better than some alternatives.

"Sure thing, sugar." She stretched out her legs again. "It'll be on the house, too."

He arched his eyebrows. "I can pay, I assure you—"

"Consider it thanks for saving my boys from a royal butt-kicking." She blew smoke into the air, watching it disperse lazily. The look in her eyes was far-away, focused on something only she could see.

Curiosity killed cats, not spies—or least the spy hoped that's the way it went—and he leaned forward a little, eyebrows knitted. Nevertheless he kept his tone light: "A royal butt-kicking from you or their rivals?"

"Both." The woman snorted. Her gaze flickered back to him for an instant. "But you want some grub, not me dumping all of my woes about my boys onto you."

"On the contrary," here he paused to light the cigarette he'd been flipping through his fingers for the past few minutes, "I like your sons. They're stubborn little fellows—remind me a bit of myself, actually."

A spy was nothing if not patient, and so he waited, finding something very interesting to stare at on the table while the woman next to him considered him, what he might want, and what he was trying to do by being so friendly. She wasn't stupid—she'd been approached by men before, enough to know when they were sincere.

She decided, after a few minutes of silent reflection, that this man was sincere enough. Besides, her sons liked him. And none of her boys would allow a man to get close to their mama if they didn't approve of him.

She chuckled softly, and didn't even realize it until the spy had looked back her way. "I'm sorry," he spoke smoothly; "I didn't realize my beauty could induce euphoria either. Back on with the hat."

She swatted at his hand as he raised the fedora to his head. "No, it wasn't you. I was thinking."

The hand clutching the hat lowered a tad. "Of?"

"Of this one time," she half-smiled, "I brought a man home for dinner. Nice guy, grocer, always double-bagged the heavy things and helped me carry them out. A bit too eager to please, y'know? Well, I figured, why not? I invited him over for dinner one night. He introduced himself to the boys—kept getting their names mixed up, though, and finally started all them nicknames like 'sport' and 'slugger' and what-not. And the boys…well, they didn't take to that too kindly. By the time he left," she couldn't contain her grin, "he was splattered in mashed potatoes and peas."

"Oh dear," the spy's tone was dry, but even he was amused by the image.

"Yeah. 'Course, that relationship ended before it could get off the ground."

"Did the boys ever give you a reason for the flinging mashed potatoes at this poor unsuspecting man?"

"They said," she smiled, "they said that if they were going to have a new dad the least he could do was keep their names straight."

"Hm. That sounds like something Charlie would say."

It hadn't been intentional. At least, for the most part it hadn't been intentional. There was a basic, inner, and long-buried part of him, the same eager-to-please-ness the poor grocer had possessed, the same awkwardness that had made his ears burn red when girls teased him back in primary school, that had caused it. The secret part of him had allowed it to slip out—to subconsciously prove to this pretty woman that he had gotten her sons' names in order, and for the most part personalities too.

He caught her gaze and held it for a long minute, the same secret part of his brain cheering when he saw the look in her eyes warm. The outer part of him, however, was very good at keeping its cool. So he only allowed a corner of his mouth to twitch upwards.

"Speaking of names," she cleared her throat, "I'm Jane."

He took the calloused hand she offered him gently. "Call me Philippe."

**….**

The causal meeting at the diner was far from the RED Spy's mind as he fired off his revolver, watching the speedy young BLU Scout fly off his feet from the force of the shot, an undiluted scream escaping him as the bullet ripped through skin and muscle.

It had been some twenty-odd years ago, and now the spy was the Spy—a proper noun for a proper title. He'd been younger then, inexperienced, and more willing to let his guard down. Time, experience, and mistakes had taught him well.

Unfortunately, even the master forgot basic lessons sometimes.

He sneered at the Scout struggling into a sitting position, glaring at him with utter hatred and clutching onto his bloodied shoulder. "Well, off to visit your mother!"

He should have known better. Really, he shouldn't have been surprised at all when the Scout scrambled up and leapt at him, all pain and fear forgotten in the wake of fury.

He knew the lengths a boy would go to in order to protect his momma's honor.

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Y'know, I had a blast writing this. It's so different from my normal stuff, in a way that I can't quite put a finger on. I hope you guys liked it too. :)

Thanks for reading!

~Chaos :3


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